The first sign that Chase Costello had waited too long was the car outside the school.
It wasn't parked directly in front. It didn't need to be. It sat across the street, engine off, windows tinted just enough to be legal.
The kind of car that blended in because it wanted to.
Chase noticed it anyway.
He was watching through a live feed on his tablet, a private camera angle he'd gained access to less than an hour earlier. The school thought it was secure. Most places did. Security was a comfort people paid for, not a reality they understood.
The bell rang.
Children spilled out in loud, chaotic waves. Backpacks bouncing. Parents waving. Ordinary life unfolding with no awareness of how fragile it was.
Then Chase saw him.
The boy was smaller than he'd imagined.
Dark hair.
Serious face.
He walked like he was thinking about something too big for him, eyes scanning the crowd the way Chase recognized immediately.
Cautious.
Alert.
Too aware.
Chase's chest tightened.
"Confirmed," he said quietly into his phone. "Target is on-site."
The voice on the other end replied without hesitation.
"We see him."
Chase's team—quiet, loyal, invisible—had fanned out around the block.
No weapons visible.
No mistakes.
He'd been very clear about that.
"Who else?" Chase asked.
A pause.
"One unknown male. Thirties. Not a parent. Watching exits."
Chase's jaw clenched.
"Not subtle."
"Not careful," the voice agreed.
"Amateur or desperate."
"Either bleeds," Chase said.
Then stopped himself. "Figuratively."
Another pause. "Understood."
The car across the street came to life.
Chase's grip tightened on the tablet. "He's moving."
The man exited the vehicle slowly, phone to his ear, pretending to scroll as he watched the children. His gaze locked briefly on the boy.
That was enough.
"Intercept," Chase said. "Clean."
The woman—his son's mother—was running late.
That alone might have cost them everything.
She broke into a jog, panic already written into her posture, scanning the crowd. Her eyes found the boy.
Relief flashed across her face.
She didn't see the man step into her path.
He smiled.
Friendly.
Too friendly.
"Excuse me," he said. "Quick question—"
Chase didn't hear the rest.
One of his men stepped in from the side, shoulder-checking the stranger hard enough to knock the phone from his hand.
"Hey," the man snapped. "Watch it!"
Another voice joined in.
Calm.
Apologetic.
"Sorry. He didn't see you."
The distraction lasted three seconds.
Long enough.
The woman reached the boy, grabbed his hand, and turned away—straight into Chase's line of sight on the screen.
She froze.
Her eyes lifted.
She wasn't looking at the camera.
She was looking at him.
Chase felt it like a punch.
Even through a screen, even across distance, recognition hit. Not of his face—but of what he represented.
Control.
Answers.
Danger.
She pulled the boy close and kept walking.
Behind them, the man recovered his phone, anger flaring. He opened his mouth—
—and then stopped.
One of Chase's team leaned in, said something too low for the mic to catch.
Whatever it was drained the color from the man's face.
He nodded.
Once.
Too fast.
Then he turned and walked away.
Chase didn't breathe until the street was clear.
"Follow him," he said. "Quietly."
"Already done."
"Good."
Chase set the tablet down and pressed his palms flat against the desk. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass—controlled, composed, furious underneath.
They had come for the boy in daylight.
That wasn't a test.
That was a message.
His phone rang.
Her number.
He answered immediately.
"You're safe."
"For now," she said. Her voice was shaking. "That man—"
"He won't be a problem again."
"That's not comforting."
Chase softened his tone.
"I know."
A pause.
Then, carefully, "You were watching."
"Yes."
"You said you'd take the attention."
"I am."
Silence stretched between them.
"You should've told me sooner," she said finally.
"That this was your world."
Chase closed his eyes.
"I didn't know there was a place for you in it."
Another pause.
"There isn't," she said.
"That's why I need to leave."
"No," Chase replied immediately.
"That's exactly why you can't."
Her breath caught. "You don't get to decide that."
"You're right," he said.
"But the people who sent that man will decide for you if I don't."
She didn't respond.
Chase continued, slower now.
"I'm not asking you to trust me because I'm good. I'm asking because I'm dangerous—and I know how they think."
"You sound like him," she said quietly.
Chase flinched.
"I won't become him," he said. "But I won't let his legacy finish what it started."
The line stayed open.
Then, softly, "What do you want from us?"
Chase looked out at the city, already shifting, already reacting.
"I want you where I can see you," he said. "And where they can't."
That night, Chase received confirmation.
The man's name.
His employer.
A shell beneath another shell. A contractor who didn't know who he really worked for—and didn't need to.
The trail stopped one level above Luca
Romano.
Not proof.
But close enough to hurt.
Chase leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"Loose ends," he murmured.
Outside, the city glowed like a living thing.
And somewhere in it, someone had made the mistake of touching what belonged to him.
That mistake would not go unanswered.